


A Mimetic Wind; A Sympathetic Tremor

by mixolydias



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: M/M, so much tender bullshit, tiny bit of chronic illness!alyosha
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-11-29 18:26:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11446530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mixolydias/pseuds/mixolydias
Summary: The windows of Arrell's apartment are all open, and there is fresh fruit on the desk when Alyosha arrives, so he knows it is a good day.





	A Mimetic Wind; A Sympathetic Tremor

**Author's Note:**

> i just wanted them to kiss on a balcony, so heres that, plus literally nothing else

Alyosha finds a new pen, the color of the ocean on a bright day, in his mailbox at the church the day after his favorite breaks.

His workday is long, longer than usual, and full of tedious appointments that take him from one end of Rosemerrow to the other. There is nothing else that Alyosha would want to do with his life than serve the church, to repay it for the steadiness, the comfort it has given him throughout his life, but he can never seem to catch his breath on days like these. But it will pass, he knows, it always does. He keeps the pen in the inside pocket of his coat, a steady weight against his side.

The windows of Arrell's apartment are all open, and there is fresh fruit on the desk when he arrives, so he knows it is a good day. Alyosha shrugs off his boots and coat by the door, slowly, his whole body aching, and finds Arrell on the balcony watching the sunset.

“I never told you that I needed a replacement," he says after settling beside him, elbows touching, and a long moment of quiet. "Thank you."

Arrell turns and leans his back on the railing before taking Alyosha’s wrist in his palm. Alyosha breathes deeply as something in his chest trembles. It was these fleeting touches, unprompted, uninitiated, that Alyosha never thought his heart would be able to adjust to.

“I saw when we met for lunch. The ink marks,” Arrell says, as he slides his thumb down the side of Alyosha’s hand. He is so close that Alyosha can see the sunset behind them bleeding over the sides of his neck. His skin would be warm, Alyosha thinks, if he touched him there.

“Here.” He flips the hand over and makes small circles around the base of Alyosha's index finger. “And here.”

The bird wings of Alyosha’s heart beat fast and light. “I see.”

Arrell continues to trace over Alyosha’s knuckles. “I could tell you had tried to fix it, and were unsuccessful.”

Alyosha cannot help smiling. “It's not my speciality. But I’m flattered that you study my hands as thoroughly as one of your books.”

“They do good work.” Arrell lifts his eyes to meet Alyosha's. A warm breeze lets a strand of ink-black hair unfurl across his forehead. He doesn't let go of Alyosha's hand.

Alyosha wants desperately to keep Arrell like this, untroubled, eyes soft, backlit by orange light. If his hands could do that, it would a labor he could devote his life to.

“I am trying,” he says, softly, and leans in to kiss him.

Arrell drops Alyosha's hand in favor of threading his fingers through the hair at the base of Alyosha's neck.

Against his lips, Alyosha can taste the lingering sweetness of a piece of fruit Arrell must've eaten before Alyosha had arrived. The image of this man, so frustratingly consumed by the need to work, shouldering a grief so big that even Alyosha doesn't know how to ease its burden some days— away from his desk. Eating a fruit on the balcony and watching the light turn. It thrills him in a quiet, desperate way. He tucks it away somewhere in his heart.

Alyosha pulls him closer, and Arrell makes the most wonderful noise when Alyosha runs his tongue along the other man's bottom lip to get a better taste.

"Tangerine," he guesses, after pulling his head back.

Arrell lets out a laugh, shaky and unpracticed, but still, a laugh. "Clementine," he corrects.

Alyosha grins, and groans, and bends slightly to nestle his head in the curve of Arrell's neck. It _is_ warm there; Alyosha can feel it against his cheek.

"I still have much to learn, then." The words are muffled against the white cotton of Arrell's shirt.

Arrell places his hands at the small of Alyosha's back and hums. "You are tired," he whispers into Alyosha's hair.

"I wish that the houses bordering the Long Sand would learn to take in their rocking chairs before the winds come so I would not have to fix them every month." He sighs. "But every labor done in His name is worth its weight in sweat and blood."

Arrell snorts. "I think even Samothes Himself would tire of being called on the same menial errand."

"And Ilya will not stop suggesting possible additions and retractions to my upcoming sermon which I _appreciate_ but—"

"Ilya," Arrell interrupts in a pointed tone, "has never had a useful thought in his life and I don't know why you even entertain him. I could pay his office a visit you know, I have my ways of—"

It is Alyosha's turn to laugh now. He lifts his head to kiss Arrell's cheek. "Down boy," he says. "But if he continues into next week, then I will have to take you up on that."

"Good," Arrell says.

"Good," Alyosha says while yawning.

"You should sleep."

Alyosha groans again. "I can't, you're in a good mood. I want to talk with you longer." The church is sending him out to the north in the next month and he needs to build up his strength, but he prefers Arrell's hand on his back to any bed. "I want to know about your day."

Arrell lifts his hand and tucks a lock of hair behind Alyosha's ear. "I woke. I read. I went to the markets. I—" His hand stills. "I think that I'm on to something, Alyosha, but it feels different. I feel." Arrell's voice is quiet, and the balcony door creaks in the breeze. "Peaceful."

Alyosha looks at the last glimpses of blush-colored light on the horizon, catching on Arrell's hair, and says a quiet prayer to Samothes that it will last, this time. He has always prided himself on being hopeful.

He smiles. "I'm glad, Tutor."

Arrell ducks his head, as he always does when Alyosha calls him by that name. He reaches for Alyosha's hand and brings it to his lips, kissing the skin above his knuckles, before pushing off the railing and heading towards the door.

"It is getting dark. I'll make us some tea," he says, over his shoulder. And Alyosha is left on the balcony.

He takes several long breaths of the night air and waits for his heart to calm down. The dark has chased the sky down to a single pin prick of light, and Alyosha watches it disappear behind a grove of trees beyond the edge of Rosemerrow. As he turns to follow Arrell back inside, he spots something balanced precariously on the railing that had been on the far side of Arrell.

It is the peel of a clementine, in one single spiraling piece. As Alyosha moves to pick it up, he realizes that it is not only that, but also the perfect container for a clear glass marble, placed at its center.

He holds it in his hand for a long moment, rolling the marble between his fingers.

Arrell's voice calls from the other room, asking him what kind of tea he'd prefer, and Alyosha fights back a smile. He slips the peel and the marble into his pocket, already forgotten, and heads inside to join him.


End file.
